


Tiny Reminders

by yuletide84



Series: The Duterte-Marcos Scandal [2]
Category: Philippine Elections 2016, Political RPF - Philippine 21st c.
Genre: ASSHOLE FRIEND, I hope I don't. hahahah, I'm sure I could be sued for this, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Past Baste/Sandro, Post mpreg!Sandro, Post-partum!Sandro, Slight mentions of breastfeeding?, Slight mentions of therapy, Suicidal!Sandro, filler chapter, i don't even know now, post-partum depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:19:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide84/pseuds/yuletide84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU WANT NOW?!” multiply by two, divide a Sandro, add a not-so-helpful friend and subtract hours of sleep. Side-fic. Post-partum depression. Mentions of suicide. Filler Chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tiny Reminders

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is purely fictional. I don’t mean to demean any of the characters presented in this fiction nor do I intend to destroy their well-preserved image and reputation. I do not extort anyone nor do I get monetary wealth in the creation of this fan fiction. I repeat, this is fiction. Not real. Dream on, ladies. If the thought of man on man and pregnant men disgusts you, fly away and don’t read another word from this thing.  
>   
>  **A/N:** SUPER RUSHED WORK. I'm not being creative right now. Btw, this is un-betaed. I haven't scanned through the text to find errors and I'm sure there's a lot, so please comment them down if you find one. Thanks!

**Tiny Reminders**

“ _If I go poor and skint, you’re the only riches I can proudly own. If they try to seize my gold, I’ll tighten my hold on you. I’ll never give you up, I’ll always hold you close because you’re all the wealth I need. You’re my Hidden Wealth._ ”

 

Sandro began to doubt his words when as soon as he heard them wake the entire Scotland up for wailing too loud. He already had a pretty shitty day after jabbing his caesarean wound open when he stood up from his usual seat in the dining room, having to need Doctor Harper’s assistance just to pee (if the embarrassment isn’t enough, the old woman just had to squeeze his wiener throughout the whole ordeal), trying to stay quiet and still while he had needles prodding his wound and thread close him up because it so happened that ‘ _I ran out of anaesthetics, dear. We will have to stitch this up without them_ ’, cursing everything from tangible things to air (because it made him sneeze twice and boy did that hurt), and _did that woman say he had to breastfeed his children?!?_

 

Long story short, Sandro was already seeing red and he feels like he could make a crater out of Scotland the moment someone tries to piss him off. Unfortunately for the Scots, his best friend might have been the last straw.

 

“Sandy, I’ve to return to London today. My parents have been going ballistics since Christmas Hols and I’m sure if I stay here a day longer they’d have me hanging by the Big Ben,” his friend pleaded to him while gripping her luggage tighter. “I’ll be back next week to file Fourth’s and Sebby’s papers with you. For now, get healed.”

 

“One moment,” murmured Sandro by the doorstep but his friend already left and firmly closed the door before Sandro could ever start his rants.

 

“I SAID ONE MOMENT YOU FUCKING BINT! CAN’T YOU UNDERSTAND?!” Sandro practically yelled to the door before kicking it furiously and punctuating each kick with a loud curse. Getting his impatience way beyond him was very unlike him. He wasn’t like this before and he was sure this was just the hormones speaking…or should I say, yelling? “FINE! GO MEET WITH YOUR BLOODY PARENTS AND I HOPE YOU LOT GET HANGED ON THE BIG BEN BY THE QUEEN HERSELF!”

 

Sandro kept on kicking the lifelessly inanimate door until he felt his wound agitate again. Surprise, surprise, Doctor Harper wasn’t around him too as she went back to her clinic in London the first thing in the morning. To top his misfortune parfait, both of his sons practically screamed for him to carry and feed them and neither his torso nor his man breasts were ready for any of them.

 

He angrily stomped to the nursery where his children were (note the tense) sleeping just a few moments ago. “WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL DO YOU WANT NOW?!” The babies only screamed louder than his own voice and all Sandro wanted to do was to curl into a ball and _finally_ wake up after all the bullshit he has gone through—fatness, lethargy, stretch marks, swollen feet and ankles, and on top of it, the labour pains and birth! Somehow, not even the loud cries of his children could ‘wake him up’. “NOT NOW, LITTLE DEVILS! MUMMY IS ANGRY RIGHT NOW! DON’T MAKE ME THROW YOU TO THE PAVEMENT ALONG WITH THE TRASH!”

 

Sandro was definitely not himself to yell at new-born children—most especially his own children…and wait, did he just call himself _Mummy_?!

 

When he finally cooled down and the pain on his lower abdomen receded, he returned to his children who were still wailing loudly. He carried one of his sons and tried to cradle him as Doctor Harper suggested before she left but to no avail, the tot still wailed as loud as the banshee. The poor kid was all red from all the crying and it didn’t seem to have enough time to breathe.

 

He tried to shush the child by rubbing soothing circles on its back but the other twin just happened to shriek louder and somehow, he ended up almost dropping one of them in his attempt to carry both children. He brought the wailing twins single-handedly into his twin-sized bed where he decided to keep the children for the night.

 

After taking almost an hour of counter-productive attempts of babysitting his own children, Sandro was already almost in tears. He could feel that he already failed his children and it was finally getting into his head that he is already a _father_ and the thought itself scared him so much—more than seeing his father’s disapproval, more than putting his family to shame, and more than failing the high expectations of everyone. It frightened him so much that he felt his heart beat so much as though he was about to be executed at any second. It was the type of fear wherein his felt his brain just get flooded away and suddenly he doesn’t know what he was doing nor does he know what to do that the cluelessness is suffocating him. Sandro didn’t notice his tears come out from his eyes and sobs replacing his normal breaths.

 

He tightened his grip on his son and wept with his son. He remorsefully whispered to his son, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do. Please forgive me. I’m sorry, please don’t cry.”

 

It pained him to hear his children cry and if he could just give them what they want to keep them from crying, he would. Unfortunately, he already failed as a parent even on the first day. He couldn’t point out what the crying was telling him. He thinks he was too young to have his children and all he ever thought of before he had them was to make his family proud so he could erase the stigma that came with his family name.

 

Thinking about the consequences, Sandro was already almost breaking down into a fit of tears. He simply couldn’t take all the wailing that he could not interpret and all the realisations and responsibilities that attached to it. He couldn’t bring to forgive himself for dragging his children into his already complicated life. He just burdened them for being an imperfect father to them.

 

Sandro locked himself inside the bathroom and wept on his own while putting his hands over his ears. He couldn’t stand hearing another cry—it was horrible, revolting and he’d prefer not to hear them anymore. He sobbed on his knees and begged all the deities to grant him a wish: to end all of it.

 

As if a secret fairy granted his wish, he found a razor in one of the cabinets of the bathroom. It was sharp enough to make a wound. Sandro traced the lines on his wrist with the blade leaving a bloody trail in its wake. Sandro winced at the sight of blood but he kept on tracing the same line until he couldn’t see the line with all the blood coating his wrist. The smell of blood slowly lured him to sleep but the faint knocking kept him awake. It took him a while to realise that they weren’t just faint knocks—they were loud banging noises on his bathroom door.

 

“ _Kuya_! Are you there?!” his brother’s voice resounded from the other side. “ _Kuya_! Open the door!!” (Brother! Are you there?! Brother! Open the door!!)

 

He saw his younger brother, Simon, pull him out of the bathroom with the paramedics behind him. His gashing wound was quickly patched up and he was forced to talk to a therapist for his depression. The therapist gave him tips on how to raise his children and also how to distinguish one cry from the other.

 

That night, Sandro broke down in shame for giving up so easily and promised not only to himself but also to his children that there won’t be any repeat performances of his severe anxiety attacks. He made sure that he won’t be giving up on them anymore and he perfectly knew that the tiny scar on his wrist will remind him of the day he nearly gave up.

**Author's Note:**

> SHRIEKS I AM HAVING SEVERE WRITER'S BLOCK RIGHT NOW. SEND HELP!
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> ANYWAY. The Baste oneshot will be up once I finally get rid of my severe Writers' Block. T_____T I need motivation in that aspect so yeah, I HOPE YOU WRITE A BASDRO FIC TOO! <3 Let's inspire one another.


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